Never Enough
by BadKatPat
Summary: Sometimes you take what you can get in a relationship. Harry didn’t particularly like this one vice of his, but Harry wasn’t here. Chapter 8 up!
1. Time

JK Rowling owns the boys, I just take them out and play with them every so often.

Wearily, Draco shrugged off his overcoat; a long black woolen one to protect him from the fierce winter wind, the green and silver cashmere scarf slithering off the collar. He was bitterly tired. Bone-achingly tired, exhausted in both body and mind. The stress of being an up and rising young entrepreneur was taking its toll on him. Business was booming, clients were streaming in, referrals were being made, money was coming in hand over fist, but all it had brought Draco was a crushing tiredness and, if he would be truthful with himself, a sort of emptiness. An emptiness that couldn't be filled with any item bought from a store, but only something time could cure. Time. The one item in any man's life, Muggle or wizard that couldn't be bought or traded. The one article more valuable than any possession, fought over by kings and commoners. And the one thing denying Draco from being with Harry.

"You're home," Harry stated, looking up from the magazine he'd been idly leafing through. It was almost half past ten, supper had dried up in the oven, and the candles he'd lit earlier had burnt down into little pools of shimmering wax.

Draco blinked. Harry's tone was one of tired acceptance, not the usual cheerful greeting that he received upon returning home, nor was there the gentle kiss that always accompanied it. Or the kiss that said, Bed! Now! Or the one that whispered of tender lovemaking and gentle touches.

Flopping into the armchair next to the sofa, Draco laid his head back, the weariness making him feel years older than Merlin himself. This wasn't the way he wanted it to be. Silent nights, cold nights, nights of passionless life. And this was what it was becoming day after day, night after night.

Harry watched the tired man collapse into the squishy chair. He could see the dark circles under his lover's eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks, and weariness that seemed to seep from him into their flat, their bedroom, and their very lives. And this is what it had become, a lonely life of evenings spent alone, even when Draco was there.

Crossing to the chair, Harry stood and gazed down at Draco, whose eyes were shut, his lips slightly parted. This was not the man who he'd met in the shop almost a year ago, but some stranger who'd taken his lover's body and life.

Brushing the mussed blond hair from his eyes, Harry watched the blue-grey eyes open slowly and come into focus. Harry's hand ghosted across the sharp cheekbones, his fingers trailing over the pale skin stretched taut in a tired parody of the man he knew so long ago.

"Harry," Draco murmured, the words slurring from between his lips. "Hey…"

"Baby, I missed you today," Harry said, squatting down beside the chair, his hand slipping down Draco's shoulder to entwine in long pale fingers. Pressing a soft kiss to fingers that had brought him pleasure night after night, Harry sighed.

Draco glanced down guiltily, he had been neglecting Harry, and yet, here he was, waiting for him; begging him without words to be a part of his life and not an afterthought. And there was never enough time.

Meeting Harry's gaze, Draco stared into green concerned eyes. Nodding, he reached over and traced the lines of Harry's lips with a long elegant finger. "I missed you, too," he whispered, his fingers brushing gently over his cheek and chin then coming to rest atop Harry's hand entwined with his. The warm feeling transmitted through flesh and bone comforted him, and he smiled, a small tender flash of happiness flitted across Draco's face.

"I'm drawing a bath for you, and you're sleeping in tomorrow. And then we're going to talk," Harry said, rising. He placed a finger to Draco's lips; the warmth from the chapped digit warming him like nothing else had that day. "Shush…no arguments."

Draco watched as Harry went into the bathroom, and the gurgle of water filling their tub was heard. The soft sound of water running made him drowsy, and he laid his head back against the back of the chair. His eyelids drooped perilously, Bath or not, he could fall asleep here, in his clothes, filthy and sticking of hair potions and coloring solutions. The faint sounds of Harry rummaging about in the bath, the hissing sound of cursing parseltongue, the squeaking of the taps, and the skritch of a match met his ears.

He'd have to remind the super to fix the hot water tap. It seemed to stick every time for Harry. Draco chuckled at the low stream of parseltongue coming from the bathroom. The sounds of water trickled off, and Harry emerged, his glasses fogged slightly from the steam.

"Come on, you," Harry ordered, grasping Draco's hands and pulling him out of the chair. Staggering slightly, the blond allowed his lover to tug him into the hot, steamy bathroom.

The fog dissipating slowly from the heat of the fat candle set on the shelf above the toilet.

Nimble fingers tugged at his clothing, and while Draco's fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Harry brushed his hands away saying, "Let me."

Draco nodded. He couldn't concentrate on more than one thing right now, and that was standing up. He watched mutely as Harry undid the buttons of his shirt, his fingers ghosting over his wrist as he undid the cuffs. Smiling, Harry, pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor in a messy heap. His undershirt was next, and Harry tugged it over his head and dropped it carelessly next to his shirt. Draco shivered, even though the room was warm, he still had a chill from the evening walk home.

A slight frown crossed Harry's face, and he wrapped his arms around Draco and nuzzled the side of his face. It felt good to just have Harry holding him; the warmth of his embrace banishing the shivers that trembled across his skin. Draco sighed, Harry could touch him anywhere, and he would feel warm and loved. Harry shifted, his arms still around Draco, but Harry moved until was spooned up behind him, his lips pressing to the nape of his neck, his nose brushing the tie of his ponytail.

"Trousers, now," Harry said, his words slithering across his ear, his lips kissing the soft patch of skin beside his ear, his fingers working at the clasp and zipper of his black trousers. The dropped to the floor, pooling around his feet, his boxers following as Harry slid them over his slender hips. "Toe off your shoes," Harry ordered, dropping down to help Draco untangle his feet from the clothes, shoes, and socks. Finally, Harry tugged the black ribbon from Draco's hair, letting the pale blond hair free to drift around his shoulders.

"Water's a little hot, be careful, mind you," Harry said, guiding Draco toward the tub and into the water. Foggily, Draco looked at the condensation pooling on the blue tiles of the bath, the small droplets, forming, and then sliding down the tiles to drip back into the tub. The water was not uncomfortably hot, but was warm enough to leech some of the weariness from him. He felt tired muscles in his legs relax, and he drew a knee up and tucked it underneath his chin, wrapping his arms around it.

"Don't lean back just yet," Harry said, pulling his own jeans and tee shirt off as quickly as possible. The tee shirt was tossed across the room to land by the door, and his jeans dropped in a heap near Draco's own clothing. Simple black glasses were set on the sink countertop with hasty care.

Draco watched numbly as the tawny flesh was uncovered. If there was anything left in him, he would have responded, but yet, Harry was handsome, and his heart beat a little faster when his briefs hit the floor beside Draco's boxers. Somewhere in his befuddled brain, one coherent thought surfaced, how did he ever end up with such a thoughtful boyfriend?

Easing himself into the tub, Harry slipped in behind Draco, and rested his back against the tub wall. He slid down enough so that he was covered by water from the waist down. "Alright now, lean back," Harry whispered, on arm automatically circling the blonds trim waist.

The water slopped a little over the side of the tub as Draco scooted back, Harry's arm drawing him closer with practiced ease. He settled unto Harry's chest, and Harry wrapped a leg over Draco's.

Harry reached down, his hand cupped and brought the warm of water up and poured it over Draco's hair. The impossibly blond hair darkened to the color of molten honey with each pass of Harry's hand. It stuck to Draco's shoulders, the rivulets of water trickling downward to return to their origin.

Draco sat up straight for a moment when Harry's hand left his waist, but then slid back against Harry again, when he felt his long hair lifted and draped it over Harry's shoulder so it wasn't caught between the two men. Harry sat back against the tub, his arms resting on the edges, an unspoken invitation to Draco to be embraced. A faint smile quirked his lips and Draco leaned into the smooth, muscular chest of his lover, warm skin pressed against his back, their hearts falling into a steady rhythm in this quiet moment in time. Lately it seemed there had been very few quiet moments.

They sat there, a minute, or five, the water lapping around their waists, the faint drip of the spigot, the only interruption in their contented silence. Then Harry's hand left its lazy perch.

His fingers drifted down Draco's arm, his touch light and sure. Broom-roughened fingers traced the curves of his arm, following the line of muscle to his wrist. Common fingers slid over his pulse, waiting, testing his reaction before teasing over his fingers. Harry's fingers brushed a slow path up, and then down the soft, white digits, softly entwining his hand in his.

A hum of contentment escaped Draco's lips, and he turned his head to gaze at Harry. Endless green eyes, heavy lidded with desire stared back at him. Harry's mouth met his, and his other arm held him close; Draco's far hand was draped around Harry's neck, his fingers caressing his skin, the damp hair sliding through his grasp. No frantic fuck me kiss, but one that was unusually gentle, lips brushing against his lips, almost soft enough to be called chaste, but intense enough to speak to him of quiet yearning.

"Harry," Draco whispered, when their lips parted. A single word spoken, breathed across slightly parted lips, and Draco laid his head against the shoulder of his lover, his nose nuzzled into Harry's neck. This was home, this body of bone and sinew, soft golden flesh pressed against his creamy white skin. Draco closed his eyes, a feeling of comfort and, then again, that one word, _home_, enveloping him.

Harry's hand left the shoulder it had been resting upon. One finger sketched over his collarbone, following the hollow between shoulder and chest, only stopping to touch his pulse beating in the notch of his throat. Could Harry feel how his soft touch was affecting him? Draco wondered idly, his eyes drowsily flickering against Harry's chest. He could feel and hear the rapid thudding of Harry's heart, the strong thud a thump resonating through his skin.

The one finger had been joined by its mates, Harry's fingertips ghosted over Draco's chest, sometimes running the length of a rib, sometimes just in random circles. And then he stopped, his palm cupped over his nipple. The slight twitch in his fingers gave it away to Draco. He could almost feel the want, the need in those fingers of Harry to brush over his tense nub. Sighing, Draco didn't open his eyes. He wanted Harry to touch him, use him, anything to make him feel something other than dead.

The twitching fingers finally stilled and then moved downward. Draco parted his legs, willing Harry to go lower, touch him there, and maybe even **there.**

His eyes opened slightly as Harry's hand lifted off his belly. Draco blinked sleepily, watching the rogue hand lift bath oil from the shelf near the tub, and before he knew it, Harry was pouring Draco's bath oil into the tub near his leg.

Harry swished the water making honey and cream scented bubbles float in the warm water around their legs. Scooping a handful, he rubbed them on Draco's belly, the popping bubbles leaving a softly scented residue on him.

Draco sighed with pleasure, the scent of honeyed bubbles wafting upwards from the steamy water, tickling his nose, and Harry's hand moving in slow, purposeful strokes up and down his abdomen, sliding gently along his muscles and ribs. If there could be Heaven on earth for a wizard such as he, this would be it.

Harry's hand drifted beneath the water. Draco shivered, not from the cooling water, but from the gentle pleasure Harry's hand was bringing him. Resting his full weight against the toned chest of his lover, he could feel Harry's erection pressed into the small of his back. And Draco knew that if he turned and touched the hardened flesh, he would feel the insistent throb of Harry's heart beating through his skin. And if it entered him, he would feel a pulse of desire beating into him. And even in his exhausted state, he would offer himself to Harry, even if it wasn't for his own pleasure.

"I could ride the broom tonight, if you want," Draco said, slowly leaning forward, his hand gripping the edge of the tub. He could bottom passively tonight, and Harry could fuck him senseless. He would do that for Harry.

Laughing softly, Harry, pulled Draco back against him, his hand resting possessively on Draco's thigh, his thumb making small circles on the pale white skin. The blond curled into Harry's embrace, his ear pressed to his lover's breast. He could hear the steady beat against his face, and this was home. Draco's sigh was a quiet whisper of breath against Harry's skin, and his tired eyes slowly closed.

Silken blond strands of hair drifted through Harry's fingers as he played with his lover's hair. How relaxed Draco looked when he slept. His face unlined, the furrows from the day's worries now gone, the tenseness around his mouth, gone, and the exhausted look erased from his body. Harry watched the blond doze, his hand still sifting the damp locks. He pressed a gentle kiss to Draco's forehead, then laid his cheek atop the blond's head.

Tomorrow, they would talk. Tonight he would let him sleep, at least until the water cooled beyond a warming charm. Then, he would rouse him and shuffle him off to bed. And he would hold him throughout the night. For tonight, that would be enough.


	2. Understanding

Quiet warmth was what he knew. The slide of creamy soft sheets around his legs, the warmth of a body spooned to his, an arm wrapped possessively around his waist; these were the sensations perceived with Draco's emerging awareness from the deep well of sleep. Stretching slightly, he curled back under the covers, his fingers toying with the hem of their satiny duvet, as he shifted toward the heat of Harry's body.

His eyelids flickered, the pupils racing beneath pale skin, and finally they lifted to reveal hazy blue-grey eyes that were moving on the path between the soft and unknown place of dreams and fantasy, and the bright morning light of reality. The trip was not long or winding, and there were no detours back into hazy half-awareness and Draco awoke suddenly.

His eyes popped open, wide, bright and startled. It was morning. It was half-past morning, actually. _The clock, the Clock, oh shit, Shit, SHIT! The alarm didn't go off_, 10:33 Malfoy's mind screamed at him. Throwing off the covers, his feet hit the chilly floor, and for one brief instant, a tiny voice inside said, _Go back to bed, it's warm, and Harry's there. _Draco paused, the heels of his hands rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and then he felt two arms wrap around his waist, and the soft press of lips to his lower back.

"Harry, not now, I've got to go, I'm late," Draco said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. He went to rise, but the arms tightened around his waist, and he sat back on the edge of the bed.

"No," Harry said, pulling Draco back into the middle of the bed. He'd held Draco most of the night, sometimes with his arms wrapped around him, sometimes, just spooned together like matching flatware, and sometimes, just resting with Draco sprawled over him. Harry had watched the blond sleep, his head resting on Harry's arm, his soft breath tickling his skin with every breath he took. Harry could still feel Draco's soft hair between his fingers, the ice-white strands drifting through his fingers, falling to frame his lover's face. He'd wanted more; the taste of his lips on his, the soft breath becoming harsh and gasping, the feel of body moving against his, and mostly the feeling of being loved and filled by this blond god in his bed. But, Harry had been content to hold the sleeping dragon for this short time, knowing these quiet actions were never enough.

"You're not late Draco," Harry said quietly, releasing Draco and maneuvering to sit across from him, the blankets bunched around his waist. He looked at his hands, studying his nails, down at his feet, anywhere but into the eyes of his lover, but finally his gaze ended there, staring into darkening slate colored eyes. Again, Harry hesitated, stalling, not wanting to say the words that he knew would anger Draco, but knowing that he would have to eventually.

"What do you mean, I'm not late?" Draco asked, irritated from his abrupt awakening, and Harry's odd hesitation. Didn't Harry understand anything? Time was money. He had a business to run, meetings to attend about the Malfoy estates, a trip to arrange to visit his mother, and he was running late; and nothing pissed Draco off more than being behind. If he hurried and cast as many grooming spells as possible, he would just be able to make the first meeting. This was a piss poor way to start the day and it showed on his face.

Placing his hand on Draco's forearm, Harry could feel the tension beginning in his body, the muscle beneath his hand quivering. "I canceled your appointments. I called Ramone and asked him to handle the shop today for you," Harry said, stiffening, waiting for the coming explosion.

"You what?" Draco exploded, throwing Harry's hand off. "What were you thinking? What gives you the right, to, to…" Draco said, his anger causing him to stutter, the words caught behind his growing rage.

"Take over your life," Harry said, his voice firm and defiant. It wasn't about taking control of his partner's life. It wasn't about being in control at all. It was about giving control of Draco's life back to him. The work, the meetings, the late hours, and the never-ending stress had finally taken its toll on Draco… and Harry.

Draco's cheeks had flushed to a rosy tint, his hands clenched into fists, the scowl of first year scrawled across his face, and Harry fought the urge to laugh in his face.

"Fuck Harry!" Draco said, jumping off the bed, and whirling around to face his boyfriend. "This isn't even remotely funny. This is my life, not yours. What ever gave you idea that you could call the shop, cancel my meetings," Draco stopped. He was almost dumbstruck at Harry's audacity. He sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. "You've no right to even try taking over my life."

"I've no right? Harry said slowly, his own anger rearing its ugly head, almost like a serpent preparing to strike. He clambered off the bed and faced Draco. He shook his head. "You're gone all the time, you look like death warmed over, you're fucking killing yourself going in every direction." Harry's eyes shone with emerald fire. "I've no right?"

The kind, gentle boyfriend Draco had once known was gone. In its place was a snarling Gryffindor fighting for its mate. But the blond Slytherin was just as vicious.

"No you don't!" Draco shouted, his anger taking him back to the past. The almost forgotten fights bringing back all the hurts and unsaid rage back to the present. And for one brief moment he was a student again; once again Harry Potter was thwarting his plans. "You have no idea what I'm trying to do! You think I like running myself ragged? You think it's all about making the Malfoy name respectable again? With his hands on his hips, he glared at Harry.

"Well, what is it about then, Draco?" Harry hissed. "It's certainly not about us being together or anything that involves me, is it? Heaven forbid that you consider me part of your life." Harry paused, gauging Draco's reaction to his words. "Or am I just your little fuck toy?"

"Damn you! Can't you see that I don't want to be known as my father's son? That I want to prove that this Malfoy isn't a mindless follower?" Draco drew in a deep breath, and pointed his finger at Harry and now each word was followed by a vicious poke at Harry's face. "You need to grow up Harry. I have responsibilities! Re-spon-si-bilities," Draco said. "Something you know nothing about."

Harry stared at Draco, and something shuttered behind his eyes. The dark-haired man _accio_'d his trousers, his fingers clumsy with impatience. Hissing words poured from his mouth, and Draco shuddered. Memories of second year and hearing Harry speak in Parseltongue for the first time sent a shiver down his spine. For once, Draco was glad that he didn't understand snake language.

"So you've got responsibilities? And I know nothing about that at all? Do you think it was all fun and games for me during school?" Harry said, his voice low and flat. "Well, please don't consider me one of your many responsibilities," Harry finished, hooking his fingers in quote signs.

Draco blew his breath out in frustration. "You just don't understand at all. Can't you see that this is something I have to do. For me." Draco paused, weighing his words. "For us."

"Like you've ever done something for the both of us. This is all about you, not me, not the Malfoy estates, not your father or your mother. It's all about Draco and his responsibilities."

"Harry, listen to me," Draco started.

"No! You listen to me! Harry shouted, struggling to pull his trousers up and fasten the belt. He turned and reached for his shirt, and then shot an angry glance at the silent blond across from him.

"Its time I did something for the both of us this time," Harry said. He turned on his heel and apparated, vanishing with a tiny pop.

Draco sat back on the bed. He didn't want to deal with this. He didn't want to deal with anything right now. He rubbed his eyes wearily. Fuck all. He'd just gotten up, and he was exhausted already.

And Harry was gone. Not a goodbye, or piss off, or anything. He was gone.

The vague memory of being held came to his mind. A warm bath, soothing hands, caressing hands, the vague feeling of being complete. Now it was gone. Gone in harsh words and anger. Gone in neglect and denial. All that was left were responsibilities… and the damn ring he'd taken from his father.

Draco sighed. If he still hurried, he could still stop at the barristers and take care of the problem with the estate in France.

xxxxx

Harry shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Early December wasn't a good time to apparate without ones shoes. And with Mrs. Henderson from across the way watching him through the window, it probably wasn't a good idea to transfigure some. Harry mimicked putting a key in the door and shrugged. He pretended to knock, figuring that once she saw that, she would leave the window and go back to her talk shows. He'd pop back in after Draco had left. Then he'd figure out where he wanted to go.


	3. Deceit

"Draco, darling!" Narcissa exclaimed, pulling her only son into a hug.

"Mother," Draco murmured into her neck.

Releasing him from the hug, she held him at arm's length and studied her boy. Draco had lost weight since his last visit. There were dark circles under his eyes; his shoulders drooped with the weight of the world. She could see he was troubled, and frowned slightly at the faint lines etched around his mouth. This was not the appearance that a Malfoy should present! It was that Potter boy's fault that Draco had come to look like this.

Pasting a smile on her face, she met Draco's eyes. "I'm so pleased you've come to visit," she said, brushing a wayward lock of hair from his temple, her hand trailing down his face. Grasping his elbow, she nudged him toward the sofa. "Sit down and we'll have tea."

She snapped her fingers and a small house-elf appeared with tea and biscuits.

"Would mistress like anything else?" asked the house-elf.

Narcissa shook her head and waved off the small creature with a graceful gesture.

Draco gazed fondly at his mother. Gone was the desperate widow from three months ago. Gone was the woman weeping almost hysterically after the loss of her husband. Gone was the immaculate witch who allowed herself to be seen unkempt and red-eyed. This was the woman he remembered from his childhood; a coolly beautiful woman, her silvery-blond hair falling in sleek waves over her shoulders, her dress one of the latest fashion, and to all appearances, the lady of the manor gracefully taking tea with her son.

"Draco?"

Draco started from his reverie to see his mother offering him a cup of tea, her hand almost the same shade as the cream-coloured china.

Draco took the cup and saucer and set it down in from of him. Automatically, he reached for the sugar tongs sugar and dropped two cubes into his tea. Although he'd never mention it to his mother, he disliked the elf-made tea. It was too bitter and it left a slightly greasy taste in his mouth; sugar made it palatable at best.

Absently stirring his tea, he looked at his mother. She sat, patiently waiting for him to speak, an amused smile on her face. He took a sip of the still bitter drink.

"Some things never change, do they?"

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, setting his cup down and resting his hands on his knees.

"You sit and stir your tea when you have something you want to talk about, but would prefer not to discuss. You did that as a child, and you still do it now," Narcissa said.

Draco smiled tiredly at his mother. He really didn't want to talk about the past. He'd always found it better to look to the future. "I suppose. Now, Mother, I wanted to talk to you about..."

"How's your Mr. Potter?" Narcissa asked, interrupting.

Draco's mouth thinned. "He's fine. Mother, we really need to discuss…"

"That's not what I heard, dear," Narcissa said, before taking a sip of her tea.

"Mother, he's fine," Draco said through gritted teeth. He didn't want to discuss Harry and the state of his love life right now.

But, mother had always been quite adept at finding a nerve and picking at it until it finally broke.

"I heard that he had Oliver Wood in your apartment with him two days ago," Narcissa said, her eyes narrowing, watching Draco's reaction to her words.

Draco's eyes widened at his mother's casual remark; he kept his face neutral as possible even though he wanted to glare at her and throw his teacup across the room into the fireplace. How satisfying it would be to see the look upon her face as she watched her treasured china shatter against the brickwork! But, he knew he didn't have it in him to hurt her like that by destroying her treasured heirlooms.

"Mother, it's not like Harry's the only one allowed in our apartment. He's welcome to bring old school friends in for a visit," Draco said as evenly as possible, all the while wondering when it was that Harry had invited Oliver in to visit.

"I've been told that they did much more than visit, darling," Narcissa said, setting down her half-empty teacup. She reached out and closed her fingers around Draco's for a moment then she sighed and let go, gently patting his hand.

"Draco, we should talk about finding you a wife."

"What!" Draco exclaimed, then lowered his voice. "Mother you know very well I have no intention of finding a wife. I have Harry."

"Draco Malfoy, listen to me, you are not a homosexual," Narcissa said firmly. "You're just going through a phase. All young wizards go through a phase where they question authority, their responsibilities, even their sexuality. Now is the time to end this experimentation and take your duties as lord of the manor seriously. You need to find a wife and produce an heir soon." Her gaze steeled at her gaze at her son. "Draco, perhaps you fail to understand what is so perfectly clear to everyone else. You do not 'have' Harry." And then she laughed, a light tinkling sound, yet cold and hard as ice. "In fact, darling, I've been told that he was in so much of a hurry to depart that he left without his shoes."

Draco sat back in his chair. He was speechless. She knew. She knew without him even telling her. Not that he would tell her anyway. But how did she know?

The smallest of smirks twitched across Narcissa's face. "Darling, you must see that his leaving is for the best. He's unfit for you. Such a lower-class wizard. He hasn't the proper breeding or manners to be with you." She reached for her tea and stirred the still warm liquid absently. "Even as a casual fling," she added.

Forcing a frosty smile of his own, Draco reached again for his tea. "Mother, you shouldn't believe everything you hear. Your sources could be mistaken."

"Darling, my sources are very accurate, and even as we speak, you have no idea where that hanger-on has gone. Not that you should worry yourself about him." Narcissa replaced her cup on her saucer and then settled back into her chair, folding her hands primly in her lap. "Now let's talk about suitable witches that would benefit the Malfoy line."

"Mother, I didn't come here to talk about Harry or 'witches that would benefit the Malfoy line.' I came here to talk about your spending and the state of the estates," Draco said, anger seeping into his voice. How could she treat him like that! His own mother! And in that brief moment as he stared at his mother, he realized that this lovely, but cold woman sitting in the wintry sunlight was more like his father than he would ever be: more of a Malfoy than he ever wished to be. He also realized that she was in her favorite element: deceit and manipulation. As paranoid as it may seem, she was probably responsible for all the problems with the manor. _And the problems between me and Harry_, the little voice in his head supplied.

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, willing the onset of a throbbing headache to go away. He could feel the tension starting in his shoulders and neck, tendrils of pain creeping up the back of his head. The challenge of dealing with his mother and the open wound Harry had left in his heart were making him sick. Closing his eyes, he wished she would vanish, then stopped. Involuntary magic occurred at the strangest times, and most often during stress… He opened his eyes to find his mother gazing at him coolly, her eyebrow arched as if to say, "Is there a problem?"

"Mother, have your sources also told you that if your spending continues in the manner it has I will be forced to sell the estate near Tuscany? Or that I've considered giving you the estate near Beaulieu, since I've considered moving back into the manor? Have your sources reported to you that I've considered giving up the title and letting it go to our French cousins?" Draco said, gripping the arm of the chair, his white knuckles the only outward sign of his anger and frustration. Apparently his mother had no idea that the fines from the Ministry and Lucius' neglect of the estates during his illness had reduced the Malfoy coffers substantially. He had offered to help, but Lucius had turned him down. They were no longer extremely wealthy, but on the verge of being merely well-to-do.

Narcissa lifted an eyebrow in amusement. How like his father he was! Oh, Lucius had fussed at her for her spending and threatened to sell off the estates. It must be a Malfoy trait to overreact to what was her right as lady of the manor.

Draco rose and started to move toward the door, but stopped and turned back. Leaning over the back of her chair he whispered into her ear, "Mother, you should consider what you're paying your sources. They're not worth the galleons you've spent."

Narcissa rose gracefully from her chair. Smiling, she patted her son's cheek gently. "I haven't spent a single Knut for what I've been told. My sources tell me what they do because they disapprove of your lifestyle as much as I do. Why, in fact, darling, they mentioned that you boys are a bad influence in the neighborhood," Narcissa laughed, her hand falling from Draco's cheek.

Draco stared into dark blue-grey eyes, ones so very similar to his own, searching for the least hint of untruthfulness, wishing he could see the lies within, yet finding nothing but an amused glimmer. He sighed. He was tired of these cat and mouse games and today he would end this round of deceit.

"Mother," Draco said, "choose whichever villa you'd like to live in. Any of them except Tuscany and the Manor, I don't care which. You'll have a healthy annuity to live on, but that's it. You'll have to 'make do', as the Muggles say."

Draco knew that this was the end of life as his mother knew it. She'd make a commotion about it, but he didn't care. Life was all about change. He'd changed. Harry had changed. Now it was time for Narcissa to change; for better or worse. It made no difference to Draco.

To his surprise, Narcissa laughed: a light tinkling bell-like sound. "Oh Draco, I'm not going anywhere. Until you marry, I will remain the lady of the manor. I have the same rights as your wife would have."

Draco's heart sank. He'd forgotten all about the provisions of wizard descent. She was correct. He watched her glide toward him.

Narcissa slid her arm into Draco's. "Walk with me, Darling. I'd like to show you how I've decorated the Ball Room."

Mother and son walked with linked arms towards the door; Draco managed to keep a calm demeanor, the only outward sign of anger were his tightly pressed lips.

"I think we should have a large, extravagant party when we announce your engagement. And we can even invite your Mr. Potter."

"Mother," Draco said, "I've already told you that I'm not getting married."

"Tish tosh, dear," Narcissa said with a little wave of her hand. "You will get married just like all your ancestors. Narcissa looked up into her son's face, noticed the clenched teeth and the set jaw. He was so like Lucius! Sighing wistfully, she patted his cheek, feeling the well-concealed rage underneath the cool façade. "Darling, you are so like your father and your grandfather. She gave a little chuckle. "It's not like you have to give up your Mr. Potter. Your father had several mistresses and at least three male lovers during our marriage. Why do you think it would be different for you, dear?"

Draco felt the blood draining from his face. He stopped dead in his tracks, turned toward his mother, pale and slightly shaken at his mother's oh-so-casual revelation. How could she be so unconcerned about her husband's unfaithfulness and bi-sexuality?

"Oh darling, don't look so shocked," Narcissa said. "Surely you don't think that I was lonely during those times?"

"Mother!"

A lilting giggle was his answer. "Draco dear, many witches and wizards have paramours while they are married. You can have both your cake and eat it too, as the saying goes. Mr. Potter could live in the guest house near the lake, just like all your father's mistresses did, and you and your wife could live here in the manor. I could have the west wing and be the eccentric but loving grandmother."

Narcissa frowned suddenly. Grandchildren. She was far too young for them, but they were a necessity, and that was that. The Malfoy line must continue. She'd promised Lucius, and she meant to keep that last promise. Even if it meant being called "Grandmamma."

"I don't think Harry would agree to that," Draco said tightly. He loosened his arm from his mother's. "I think I should be going now. I have to be at the shop at one." It was a lie but he'd use any excuse to escape the clutches of his scheming mother.

"Do stay a little longer," Narcissa purred, "I have a list of suitable candidates that I'd like to go over with you. The young women I've selected have the all the proper traits necessary to produce the perfect Malfoy heir." The look on Draco's face said it all. He was in lust with that damned Potter boy. She watched Draco heading toward the door, pulling on his cloak. "It doesn't have to be anything more than a marriage of convenience," Narcissa said. "Think about it won't you?"

Draco fastened his cloak; his fingers fumbling with the clasp, anger making him clumsy. Deceit had taken many things from him: a happy and carefree childhood; his father, a cunning man, taken in by the lies and half-truths of Voldemort. And now, his mother wanted him to lie to the world. He detested lies, but this was his heritage; a world of deceit and cunning. She now wanted him to use them to his advantage only as a Malfoy could. A dark flush tinted his cheeks and the roaring in his ears prevented him from hearing Narcissa's last words.

"I'll see you next week, Mother," Draco spat as he slammed the door behind him - a lie as he had no intention of seeing her anytime soon.

As he stormed out of the manor, he realized that he felt sick to his stomach. He had been lying. And he hadn't even realized it. It had been that natural and he had done it without thinking at all.

He needed to find Harry and tell him he'd been wrong. Wrong about what he had considered important in his life. It wasn't the bloody Malfoy name or the responsibilities that came with it; or even his shop, the one thing that he'd created with his own hands. The worst thing about it all was that he had lied to _himself_ about what was really important to him; the one constant in his life for almost the past year. Harry.


	4. Surprises

Draco turned the corner of Cockburn and Wentworth. It was good to be almost home. One day in France, one with his mother, and one accidental Apparation to Beaulieu had kept him away from home for three days. Three long days. Hopefully, Harry was at home and would be willing to forgive him for being an arse. Draco started to run.

Vera Henderson was a snoop. There was no doubt about it. All the neighbors on Wentworth Street knew it; everyone, it seemed, except the boys that lived in the rented flat across the street from her.

Mrs. Henderson had lived on Wentworth Street for the last thirty years, which was almost as long as she'd been married to Mr. Henderson. Since his passing, she'd become a bona fide busybody; and made it a point to know everyone's business.

She let the curtain fall from her hand and scuttled off toward the door. The Malfoy boy was coming home, and if she hurried she could catch him before he went in.

Her ample bosom heaving with each step, she scurried out the door, her shawl drawn around her shoulders.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she called, waving her hand as she crossed the street. "Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco stopped at the screeching of his name. He recognized the woman huffing her way toward him. It was the little old lady from across the way. Harry had told him about her. She seemed harmless, a bit nosey maybe, but then again - Draco knew that people who seemed the most harmless were sometimes the most dangerous. Sighing, he waited for her to reach him. It was bad enough to have Apparated to Beaulieu in a state of anger. Worse still to have to wait until morning to get to a Floo station to get home. Now this old Muggle…

"A word in your ear Mr. Malfoy?" the elderly woman panted, clutching her chest as she caught her breath.

"Yes, ma'am," Draco said. Since his business catered to both Muggles and magical folk, he'd learned to be polite to Muggles.

"It's about Mr. Potter," she said, narrowing her eyes slyly at Draco.

Draco frowned. What about Harry?

"He came home three nights ago with some nice-looking young man. I think Mr. Potter may have been drunk…" she paused.

Draco's head snapped back. _What the hell is she talking about?_ he thought. He studied her face for any trace of deceit or treachery. Best to play it cool for now. "Oh Mrs. Henderson, surely you're mistaken. Harry doesn't drink. Well, at least not to excess. You know, a pint of ale or a glass of wine now and then."

Mrs. Henderson shook her head, her frizzy grey curls bobbing with the motion. "Oh no, he was quite drunk. I could smell the liquor on him. The both of them," she said, watching him carefully, and then continued. "I went out to give them a piece of my mind, the two of them acting like fools, singing, or at least Mr. Potter was singing… "

Draco cocked his head, but kept his face neutral. "Now, Mrs. Henderson, he's a big boy, I suppose he can drink a bit too much if he wants," he said in the best casual tone he could muster.

"Mr. Malfoy, that's not what's upsetting about it. He was draped all over him!" she said. "And then he kissed him! Right on the lips! In the middle of the street!" the elderly woman exclaimed.

Draco stared at her, speechless.

"Now, dearie, it's alright. I know it must come as a shock," she said soothingly, patting his arm. "But, Mr. Malfoy, is it possible your flatmate is a queer?" Mrs. Henderson asked in almost a whisper.

Draco swallowed. She didn't know about them. "Did Harry mention his friend's name?" he asked in an attempt to deflect her question.

"Why, yes he did. He called him Ollie," Mrs. Henderson said. She tugged on Draco's sleeve to get his attention, the poor lad looked dumbstruck. "He said he loved him. The Ollie fellow."

Draco stood still in a state of shock. Could it be?

Draco paled. And to Mrs. Henderson's eye he looked vaguely sick. Not that she blamed him in the least. It was perverted for a man to kiss another man. Not to mention in the middle of the street. And drunkenness was no excuse, either.

She watched Draco flee to the door and let himself in. She'd be upset too, if she found out that her flatmate, if she had one, was gay or lesbian or whatever they called them these days. _Poor man_, she thought as she crossed the street back to her house. She'd have to ring up Ethel down the block and tell her all about that nasty Potter boy.

Draco slumped against the wall. Harry, with another man. He was devastated, he felt sick, almost to the point of retching. Mentally calming himself, he ran a trembling hand through his hair. But, wait! The Muggle had said Harry had been drunk. Perhaps that's all it was. A drunken kiss. Maybe it meant nothing at all. But, Ollie, Ollie…

Draco slid down the wall into a pitiful heap on the floor. It was Oliver Wood just like his mother had told him! That was the only Ollie that Harry knew. Harry's first crush. Oh gods!

Moments, maybe hours later, Draco picked himself up off the floor. It had gotten dark in their flat, now his flat. He whispered a _Lumos_ and looked around. Clothes were strewn about the place, and a lamp had been knocked over. Looking around the room he spied a piece of paper on the end table near the overturned lamp. Quickly he grabbed it up and read it.

"_I'm going home."_ was all it said in Harry's familiar scrawl.

The paper fell from his limp fingers. What did he mean "home"? This was Harry's home!

Draco hurried out into the night. The cold December wind bit at his face and fingers. Whispering a warming charm, he hurried down the street. He had to find Harry… before it was too late.

xxxxx

Harry lifted his head. The room was blurry and a little fuzzy around the edges. Something rough and bumpy scratched his face as he laid his head back down. And who the hell was poking him in the shoulder?

"Arry," came a soft Scottish burr. "Wake up mate! You've been out for almost two days," said Oliver Wood, prodding the limp form sprawled out on his sofa.

"Oliver?" Harry groaned. What had he drunk at the pub? He remembered a pint of ale, no make that two, and a shot of Ogden's, and… he had no memory of what else. But, whatever it was, it had packed a wallop.

"C'mon now, I said you could stay and sleep it off, but Merlin, I would have thought you'd be up by now."

Sitting up, the covers falling from his bare chest, Harry fumbled for his glasses. His hand met Oliver's. "Thanks," Harry said. He had no memory of coming here. Pushing his hair out of his face, he stared at Oliver owlishly.

"How'd I get here?"

"Harry, you were pissed out of your mind. I found you down at the Leaky's backroom," Oliver said, a little grin on his face. "And it's a good thing I did," he continued. "There were a couple of blokes eyeing you."

Groaning, Harry buried his head in his hands. He didn't remember last night at all. Oh shit!

"Look, Harry, you've got to go. I've got company coming," Oliver said, a frown crossing his face. He didn't want to throw Harry out, but he'd been looking forward to tonight since last Thursday. "Here, stand up and get your clothes together, and I'll fix you a coffee. It'll help, I promise." He left the befuddled man standing unsteadily in the middle of his parlour. Oliver smirked. Who would have thought that Harry Potter was a stripper when he was drunk? He'd had a hell of a time calming Harry down after he'd insisted on going to his flat and leaving a note for Draco. He'd never seen a drunk change personalities so quickly! One minute crying over a note, then tearing his clothes off, asking what was wrong with his body and why didn't Draco want him, and then to staggering around the flat knocking things over. It wasn't like he'd ever leave an old teammate in that condition! He'd finally convinced Harry it would be better to stay over at his place until Draco came home. At least that was the original plan.

Harry wrapped the blanket around his waist and started gathering his clothes. He looked around the apartment and found his socks near the fireplace. Picking up what he could find of his clothing, he padded into the bathroom and shut the door; a bit scared of what he'd find looking back at him from the mirror when he turned around.

Oliver came out of the kitchen, a large mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He'd have to get Harry out of here quickly. His company was due in half an hour. Oliver had missed him beyond belief and with his crazy training schedule with Puddlemere United he'd barely seen him at all this month. Luckily, his lover wasn't the jealous sort, but he didn't want to risk it. He crossed the room and banged on the bathroom door.

"Harry, hurry it up!"

Opening the door, Harry had a mug of black coffee shoved into his hand as he stepped out. He winced as a bit of the hot liquid slopped over the side and splashed his hand.

Before he could take a sip, Oliver handed him his knapsack.

"Hang on, "Harry started to say.

"Love to chat, Harry, but I have a date, and you need to get out of here," Oliver said, pushing a half-dressed Harry toward the door.

Harry turned as the door closed behind him. He brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes, set the mug on the floor and then began doing up the buttons on his shirt. All at once it came back to him. He'd walked out on Draco. He frowned; it wasn't that big a thing, was it? Draco had acted like a twit. Gods knew Harry acted like a twit all the time. Maybe, he should go home. But what would that prove? Nothing would change. Draco would still be working himself to death, Harry would still be sitting home alone most nights, and other nights he still be sitting home with an exhausted Draco. As much as Harry cared for him, he couldn't bear to see him like that. Draco was irritable, distracted, and generally a pain in the arse these days.

Harry turned and started down the stairs. He wasn't going to go back to their flat. Luckily he was on leave from the Ministry, so he wouldn't have to call in and arrange another week off. Harry needed time to think; to organize his muddled thoughts, to think about Draco, and what he really wanted in life. He'd lived so long doing what was expected of him, and maybe now it was time for him to discover what he really wanted for himself.

Lost in his thoughts, he turned down the last set of stairs, and a tall, tanned man brushed past him. "Sorry Harry!" the man called over his shoulder, then headed up the steps, taking two at a time.

Harry turned and frowned. The man looked familiar, like someone he'd gone to school with at Hogwarts. He was a little taller than Harry, and had the same dark hair as Harry's, but he couldn't quite place him. He almost reminded him of Neville. No matter, it wasn't unusual for people to call Harry by name. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, and everyone knew the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry opened the door and shivered as the cold December wind hit him in the face. Perhaps he should talk to Ron. No, that wouldn't do. Ron didn't mind Harry being gay, but he wasn't the best one to talk to about relationships. Look at the Lavender debacle. Maybe Hermione? No, she still hadn't forgiven him for daring Ron to kiss Blaise at their last party. Harry shuddered at the memory of the shiner she had given him. Perhaps, the Weasleys. They were like parents to him. Even if they had no advice for him, at least he'd have somewhere to spend the night; and he really didn't want to be alone in some inn somewhere. He was feeling a little needy and sick right now: the firewhiskey and ale and whatever else he'd drunk hadn't exactly left him hangover free. Harry stuck out his wand, and waited. Cursing, he sat on the curb; any other time the Knight Bus would be right there, but, of course, not tonight.

xxxxx

A loud pop echoed in the cold night air. Draco clutched his coat together tighter and pulled his collar up. It was colder here than back at Wentworth Street. He headed down the street toward the last building on the right. There it was, the block of flats where Oliver Wood lived. Maybe he could convince Harry to come home. That is, if it wasn't too late.

Draco jammed his hands into his pockets and walked a little faster.

"Draco Malfoy?" Oliver said hesitantly after he opened the door. "What are you doing here?" Oliver hadn't expected to find Draco at his door; he'd half expected to find Harry slouched against the door frame, drunk, when he answered the bell.

Pushing his clenched hands in his pockets, Draco calmed himself before answering.

"Is Harry here?" he asked brusquely.

"Harry?" Oliver replied in a confused tone.

"Yes, Harry," Draco repeated impatiently.

"No, he's not here," Oliver said, and nervously glanced back into the dimly lit room.

Draco stepped closer to the entrance, and tried to peer around the door, but Oliver moved to block his view. Draco could see that he was half dressed, his shirt undone, and his trousers half-zipped.

"Well, my neighbor said he was with someone named Ollie," Draco said in a cool voice, but if Oliver had been looking, he would have seen the opposite in Draco's clenched fists.

"Oh her." Oliver said laughing. "She came up and started lecturing Harry about being drunk in public." Pulling a face, Oliver mimicked her in a high pitched cockney voice. "Aye, Mr. Potter, a fine sight you are, staggering down the street."

"And she said he left with an Ollie, and I assume that's you," Draco interrupted.

"Aye, Harry left with me, but he's not here," Oliver replied and glanced over his shoulder again.

A muffled male voice called, "Oliver, I'm getting in the shower…"

Glaring, Draco pushed against the door, but Oliver had it firmly blocked. Apparently Oliver Wood was a strong bloke, and playing Quidditch for Puddlemire United had kept him fit.

"Get out of the way," Draco growled, reaching for his wand

"Draco, I'm telling you mate, he's not here," Oliver insisted and then started.

A tanned arm circled around Oliver's waist, and long thin fingers caught the dark curly hair on Oliver's stomach through his undone shirt.

"Baby, come on, the water will get cold," the voice crooned.

Draco could see a thatch of unruly black hair behind Oliver, and in one brief flash he spotted Harry's jumper wadded up in the corner off to the side of the doorway. The one he'd given him for his birthday because it matched his eyes.

Inhuman strength can come to a person at the most stressful times. Not that it is any different for a wizard. Draco shoved at the door, his wand clattering to the floor. Oliver and the owner of the tanned arm tumbled to the floor in a heap. Panting, Draco stood above them, his fists clenched. He didn't need a wand, he'd take on Oliver Wood any time, and right now was good for him.

Oliver picked himself off the floor and pulled the other man up. Draco watched as Oliver wrapped his arms around the dark-headed man, still blocking his view of the man, and then murmuring something in his ear. Draco saw the shock of dark hair bob. Oliver nodded and, then turned and glared at Draco, before putting his arm around his lover.

A shocked gasp escaped Draco's lips and his cheeks flushed a hot pink. Holy Fuck!

"I told you he wasn't here," Oliver said angrily, his arm around Neville Longbottom.


	5. Comfort

_Oh the usual, JKR owns it all. I just like to play with the boys from time to time…._

Harry trudged down the path; his breath leaving little puffs in the cold air. The frosted weeds that he stepped on made little critching noises as he walked. The further he walked, the better he could see the Burrow.

Funny how some things never change, Harry thought. Not that he'd ever want the Burrow to change. It was as lopsided as ever, the different floors tilting as if they would slide off at any moment, the same untidy garden now frozen, and the faint smell of wood and peat burning in the hearth. Harry rubbed his hands together. It would be good to get inside and get warm.

It hadn't taken him as long as he had expected to travel to Ottery St.Catchpole. The Knight Bus had careened into the tiny village and deposited Harry at the only pub. It had been a bit tempting to crawl back into the bottle, but Harry had decided that that probably wasn't the wisest course of action at the moment. Not to mention that he felt vaguely queasy after the bus ride and he still had a bit of a hangover from his last binge.

He shifted his knapsack before he lifted his hand to knock on the door. But when his hand fell toward the wood, the door opened and Harry nearly hit Mrs. Weasley on the nose.

"Mrs. Weasley!" Harry exclaimed, blushing furiously, "I'm sor--"

"Oh don't worry, Harry, dear," she interrupted, reaching for Harry to wrap him in a patented Molly Weasley hug. "I saw you coming."

Harry sighed. For such a gentle-looking woman, she had a hug like a bear trap, and one didn't get out of it until she was good and ready to let go. But he didn't mind. It felt good to be hugged, and if he'd grown up with a mother, she would have surely hugged him like this.

"What brings you here, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she released Harry, but held onto his wrists to study him at arm's length.

He could tell from her slightly worried expression that she was going to start mothering him like mad, insisting that he eat four helpings at every meal, darning his socks, and fussing about his hair. And to be quite honest, he couldn't wait!

"Well, I had some free time and thought it might be nice to visit with you and Mr. Weasley," Harry lied. He suspected Weasleys knew of his relationship with Draco since Ron and Hermione's wedding, but he wasn't sure how they felt about it. Mrs. Weasley had seen them together at the wedding in a somewhat compromising position. But then again, she had been pretty tipsy and who knew what she remembered. They'd always treated him like one of their sons, but how did they feel about a _gay son_?

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, a little frown on her face, "you know what happens to people who lie, don't you?"

Harry's confused look turned to one of relief when he saw the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "They get bewitched and their noses grow," Mrs. Weasley said, with a little laugh.

Ushering him into the house, she pointed him toward the stairs and ordered. "Wash up, take a nap, and come down for dinner at six. You can tell me all about what brought you here later after dinner." Mrs. Weasley patted Harry's arm affectionately. "You look starved. Now hurry on up young man."

"Yes ma'am!" Harry grinned happily. Nothing had changed at the Burrow.

xxxxxx

Harry stared into the mirror over the sink. No matter what he did with his hair, he still had that messy bed-hair look. No matter how much he brushed his hair, or how much gel he used on it, it still looked like a bird's nest. After a hot shower, well, as hot as could be at the Burrow, and a short nap later, Harry felt much better. Although quite hungry.

"Harry!" A rap on the bathroom door was heard. "Molly wanted me to make sure you would be down shortly, Supper's almost ready," Mr. Weasley called from outside the door.

"Yeah, be down in a minute," Harry said. Arthur's fading footsteps told Harry that he was already headed downstairs.

Harry rubbed his stomach after another particularly loud grumble and gurgle; the thought of Mrs. Weasley's cooking made Harry even hungrier. He'd heard Mrs. Weasley say something earlier about Shepherd's Pie, and after one last lick and a promise to his hair and he turned to head downstairs.

"You don't want to eat her food!" the mirror shrieked at Harry.

Startled, Harry turned to face himself again in the mirror. He'd never quite gotten used to talking mirrors. They made him feel like he was twelve again.

"What do you mean, I don't want to eat her food?" Harry asked, staring intently into the mirror, his hands on his hips.

"Because, my boy, you don't have that kind of hunger," the mirror said in a low leering voice.

Stupid mirror, Harry thought. "Of course I'm hungry, my stomach's growling like mad," Harry said, irritated, as his stomach gave another loud gurgle.

"Boy, food won't answer your problems," the mirror said. "But, I know what will…"

Harry stepped closer and waited, staring at the cocky piece of furniture.

"You just need a good shag!" the mirror crowed and broke into cackling laughter.

"Like you've ever had a good one," Harry muttered darkly. He hurried out of the bathroom toward the stairs to the kitchen, grateful that everyone else in the Burrow was downstairs and not anywhere near hearing range of this odd conversation.

Reaching the bottom of the rickety stairs, he stopped. Was that Ginny's voice he heard? He didn't remember Mrs. Weasley saying that she would be here. He could hear her and Mrs. Weasley's voices coming from the kitchen. He hadn't seen Ginny since Ron and Hermione's wedding. She and her husband had led the rounds of toasts to the happy couple. But, what was she saying? She sounded upset. In fact, she sounded like she was crying, and as far as Harry could remember, he'd never heard Ginny cry. She'd take the roughest hit on the Quidditch field, or the hardest tumble and never shed a tear. Harry crept toward the end of the passageway to the kitchen, making sure to stay in the shadows. It felt wrong to intrude, and he probably should have gone back upstairs, but his curiosity got the best of him. Harry inched a little closer; he could hear them clearly now.

"Mum, he's just not interested like he used to be," Ginny said, and Harry could hear the tears in her voice.

"Now Ginny, you know he's very busy with his work in the Ministry. Your father would have times when he wasn't as frisky as--"

"Mum!" Ginny exclaimed.

"Ginny Weasley Longbottom! You listen to me! You want to whine about things, but when I give you advice, you don't listen to a word I say!" Mrs. Weasley said, both concern and irritation in her voice.

"Neville is under a lot of pressure at the Ministry. Of course, he comes home tired, irritable, uninterested in sex; many men are like that when their jobs become stressful," Mrs. Weasley continued more softly. Harry could almost feel the heat coming off her cheeks. A Weasley embarrassed by sex? He covered his mouth to hide his chuckle.

"I know his job isn't that stressful in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office." Harry waited, hearing Ginny give a loud sniffle. The rustling of material and a nose being blown came next.

"I think he's having an affair," Ginny said resolutely. The bang of a plate on the table followed.

"Careful dear!"

"He's not interested in sex because he's getting it somewhere else! He's tired because he has to lie and hide it from me! And irritable! He's irritable because he's running around trying to live two lives!" Ginny shrieked.

The crash of plates hitting the floor jarred Harry. This hadn't been a very good idea at all. Damn his curiosity! If he walked in now, everyone would be embarrassed and Harry didn't fancy that idea at all.

Ginny's crying seemed to echo in the gloomy passageway, and Harry inched closer to the wall. He could barely hear Mrs. Weasley's comforting words.

"There, there, dear. I'm sure you're wrong," Mrs. Weasley said in her most soothing voice, and Harry strained his ears to hear Ginny's barely audible reply.

"But what if I'm not?"

Harry decided right then and there that he should probably go back upstairs for a bit, and when he came back down, he would descend the stairs very loudly.

xxxxxxx

Dinner had been a very subdued affair; Ginny, her eyes red, and her cheeks blotchy, answering in monosyllables; Mrs. Weasley, shooting worried looks toward her daughter and Harry all through the meal. Even Mr. Weasley even seemed disturbed, if his half-hearted questions toward Harry about "spell phones" throughout the meal were any indication.

All hopes of asking Mr. or Mrs. Weasley for advice with his own problems with Draco had vanished from his mind in the light of Ginny's problems. It seemed inconceivable that Neville Longbottom would be having an affair. He had been such a stickler for rules when he was in school. It was almost unbelievable that someone so staid could be tempted into unfaithfulness.

Not to mention that Harry didn't think Neville would have been brave enough to cross Ginny like that. _I sure wouldn't have_, Harry thought with a little shudder. Ginny had been a wildcat when they'd fought at the Ministry of Magic years ago. And the way she played for the Chudley Cannons didn't seem to indicate that anything had changed in that regard.

Harry set his toothbrush back in its case. He gazed into the mirror over the sink once more. "Anything you'd like to add?" he asked, staring determinedly into the silvered glass. "Didn't think so," Harry muttered, almost disappointed that the snarky little glass wasn't up for an argument.

He picked up his toothbrush case and headed back to Ron's old room. Padding down the hall, Harry heard voices from Ginny's room. It seemed that she had decided to stay overnight after all. It was really tempting to stop and listen, but Harry had learned his lesson earlier this evening.

"Pity you and Harry aren't together," Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry stopped. Well… maybe for a minute.

Ginny said something too low for Harry to hear. But he was quite able to hear Mrs. Weasley's shocked cry.

"He's _what?_"

Nope, better to get back to Ron's room, the faster the better. Harry trotted quickly down the hall.

xxxxxxx

Ron's room still smelled of old socks and gunpowder, thought Harry as he turned over and punched his pillow. Not to mention the slightly musty odor from the closet. Harry sighed and turned over again. He didn't remember the beds at the Weasleys' being this lumpy. But then again, the last time he had stayed over had been, what? Seven years ago?

He turned towards the window this time, finally finding a spot where his body seemed to fit in-between the lumps in the mattress. He sighed again; at least the view was the same, the great oak tree outside the window. In summer it would block his view of the night sky, but right now its leafless branches afforded Harry a clear view of the stars bright in the dark cloudless night. Moonlight streamed in through the window, and if Harry stared hard enough he could almost see the tiny motes of dust in the air. Funny, how being out in the country seemed to make everything clearer, brighter, more in focus. Perhaps it was the absence of distractions that sharpened one's view of things, almost like a ray of moonlight in a dark room.

Harry closed his eyes. He was tired and he should be able to fall asleep quickly, but he couldn't. The argument he'd had with Draco preyed heavily on his mind. He wanted nothing more than to set it to rights, but what the hell was right? Harry missed Draco; he wanted to spend time with the man, perhaps even find some sort of mutual commitment with him. But Draco seemed more interested in running his business, the affairs of the manor, and at the moment being an obsessive-compulsive arse.

But Ginny's words haunted him. _Tired._ Draco had been coming home exhausted the last few months. _Irritable._ Gods, he'd been snappish with Harry lately. _Uninterested in sex_. Well, he had been passive the last few times. Not that Harry minded, but sometimes…

Could Draco be cheating on him? There. He'd finally admitted the possibility. Harry felt a huge ball of hurt welling up in his throat, and a prickling start behind his eyes. Dammit! To his horror, he felt one tiny tear slide down his cheek. He did not want to cry. Not here, not now.

Pulling the cover up under his chin, Harry tried to relax. He swallowed thickly and blinked hard at the unshed tears in his eyes. At least some things were unchanging. The fuzzy Chudley Cannons cover tickled his nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze before giving in. Harry finally felt sleepy. The bed was so nice and warm and his stomach was so full…

Draco's fingers stole under his tee-shirt, tracing his ribs, his slender fingers fitting in-between each narrow bone as they slid up his chest. Cool fingers tracing his nipple before rolling it gently, then giving it a little pinch as if to say, "be good or else."

He could feel Draco's breath upon his neck; warm and moist, and the tickle of Draco's long hair brushing over his shoulder to trail down his chest, a hot mouth kissing and gently nibbling its way to his nipples. Draco's hand moved down from the nipple it had been playing with, stopping to rest on his stomach, fingers feathering lightly through his dark hair, slowly sliding down the path to his burgeoning erection.

Draco's heavy signet ring felt cool on his hot length, and Harry bit his lip. Draco knew exactly where to touch him to bring him to this state of arousal. Harry's hand joined Draco's and stroked his erection. Harry led the way, harder, slower, faster, tighter, more…into Draco's snug grip. Harry's hand slid down once more and his damp hand cupped his aching sac. Oh Gods, it was too much, too good… more… harder… now!

Harry woke with a loud groan; his hand down his sleep pants covered in come. He felt wetness spreading beneath him and moaned. Dammit!

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley called.

Harry heard the doorknob jiggle, then stop.

"Harry, you all right in there?"

"Yes Mrs. Weasley," he choked out.

The doorknob jiggled again and the door swung open. Harry could see a blurred Mrs. Weasley in the doorway. And if he were in any other position than the one he was currently in, he would have laughed. Her face was caked with cold cream and her hair was fizzled out like a clown's, a random roller stuck here and there.

"Harry…" she began, then stopped and sniffed. It was almost like watching a bloodhound sniffing a scent, the way her nose twitched.

"It smells in here. Why didn't you tell me that it smells in here, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked, reaching into her pocket. "I'm not a very good hostess, am I? I should have checked your room."

"Mrs. Weasley, please, it's fine, really," Harry said, willing his voice to stay steady.

"Scourgify!" Mrs. Weasley cried, and gave her wand a little twisting wave.

Harry felt a wave of cleansing magic wash over him. Such an odd feeling to be sated and tingly clean at the same time.

"Good night, Harry, sleep tight," Mrs. Weasley said pulling the door shut.

"Good night," Harry murmured at the shut door and curled back under the covers.

Yep, some things never changed at the Burrow!

_a/n: A great big Thank You to all who've been leaving reviews! I can't tell you how much I love reading them and knowing that you like this little fic. What can I say? Reviews inspire me to write! Flames? Well, I just use those to light the fireplace… Auch, Viele Danke zu Conny F. for your continued support!_


	6. Secrets

The rich scent of brewing coffee teased Harry's nose. He had woken up earlier and had lain there since the sun had first peaked through the window in Ron's room. The quiet sound of someone tiptoeing past the door had told Harry that Mrs. Weasley was already up and the smell of coffee told him that she had begun to fix breakfast. Harry's stomach gave a loud grumble at that thought.

Lying there, not wanting to get up, Harry wished that the last three days had been a dream. Or more likely a nightmare. The argument, waking up in Oliver Wood's flat, and overhearing Ginny talking aobut her troubles with Neville had left him feeling oddly disoriented. It was a feeling that he hadn't had in years, and the only word that he could use to describe it was alone. Harry knew he wasn't truly alone, as in stuck-in-the-cupboard-with-the- door-locked alone. But alone as in the odd man out, not quite fitting in with the people he'd known and been friends with for years. Knowing that they still loved him meant a lot, but the feeling of being different remained.

Mentally pushing it to the back of his mind, Harry sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet curling at the feel of the cold floor. He grabbed his socks from yesterday and quickly pulled them on. Jeans, jumper, and trainers quickly followed. There was something to be said for sleeping in one's boxers and tee.

Harry let his nose lead him out of Ron's room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Hopefully this time he wouldn't overhear anything he probably shouldn't.

The rickety steps never sounded noisier as Harry bounded down them. It never hurt to be a little cautious – something he had learned the hard way, but sometimes was hard for him to do. At least they'd hear him coming.

"Morning, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said cheerfully, her smile as bright as the sun coming through the kitchen windows.

This was a marked contrast to last night's mood, and for a brief moment, Harry wondered if she'd been put under Imperio.

"Morning," Harry replied, plopping down into one of the worn chairs at the table.

"I'm about to fix breakfast. Would you prefer porridge or cereal?" she asked.

"Erm, porridge, I guess. But don't go to any bother for me," Harry said, watching the stout little woman bustling about the kitchen.

"No bother, dear."

With a flick of her wand, the pot of water began to boil and the tin on the shelf above the cooker popped open and oats flew into the rapidly bubbling water.

"Nothing like a hot nourishing breakfast, I say."

Looking satisfied that everything was set, Mrs. Weasley swished and flicked her wand again. This time the coffee pot rose and floated over to the table, hovering over the mug at Harry's place setting.

"Coffee?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Yeah, please." And from somewhere came the unbidden memory of Fred and George being scolded for using magic for magic's sake. His mouth curved into a small grin. "When did you start drinking coffee?"

The coffee pot filled Harry's cup and then floated over and topped off its owner's.

"Since Arthur brought some home as an experiment," Mrs. Weasley laughed.

Smiling, Harry blew on the steaming liquid and took a sip. He set the cup down and studied it for a minute. There was always something new to learn about the Weasleys.

Harry heard Mrs. Weasley slide into the chair across from Harry and he could feel her eyes upon him. She coughed and he knew she was waiting for him to look up.

He was met with a gaze from serious dark brown eyes. And the little grin that was on his lips faded.

"I want to talk to you about things, Harry," Mrs. Weasley began and then stopped. Harry could tell that whatever it was she wanted to talk about bothered her.

Harry nodded, and reached for his coffee, stalling the conversation by blowing on the still steaming liquid.

"Ginny isn't herself lately, and I'm worried," Mrs. Weasley said a bit sadly. She reached over and grasped his hand before continuing. "And Harry, you haven't spent the night in years, and I know that something has got your knickers in a twist to come running back here. She patted his hand and smiled a motherly smile. "Not that I mind in the least. So, now two of my children are upset and I need to know what I can do to help," she finished, her face full of concern.

"I had a fight with Draco," Harry said, surprised that the words tumbled from his mouth so easily. On his way to the Burrow, he'd rehearsed how he would say what had happened and then he had just gone ahead and blurted it out. But, it probably wouldn't have worked on Molly Weasley anyway. She had the ability to cut to the chase during conversations.

"Draco? Lucius Malfoy's son? My hairdresser?" Mrs. Weasley said her wrinkling her brow in confusion. "Why would having a fight with my hairdresser have you so upset?"

"I live with him," Harry said.

"Oh, he's your flatmate. I didn't know you were good friends now," Mrs. Weasley said. "So what was the fight about then?" she asked.

"Well, he's always working late, he comes home tired, exhausted actually, and he doesn't want to have…erm, he's snappish with me.

"Well, dear, just ignore him. He'll get over it, what ever it is." She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. "So, what has gotten you so upset?"

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. He had just told her what the problem was! What else did she need to know?

"Well, ah…he's acting like he's not interested in me anymore," Harry said vaguely. Where was what he'd rehearsed? Gah!

"Why should he be interested in you? He's just your flatmate," Molly said. "I mean, isn't he involved with that little Asian-looking fellow down at his shop? Ramen, Romen, Oh… Ramone? She gave a little wave of her hand. "Something like that."

There was nothing for it. Harry felt this cheeks heat up. It was like he was thirteen again and confessing that he had a crush on Cho to Ron. But this was much worse than that.

"Harry, Harry... are you alright?" Molly asked anxiously. "You look feverish."

Harry met her concerned eyes. "He's not involved with Ramone. He's involved with me."

Molly didn't flinch or look shocked. And Harry had to give her credit. She didn't scream or gasp either. She just looked surprised…and a little sad.

Harry waited. He couldn't look her in the eye. The moment stretched on, and on, and Harry had the urge to get up and leave. Somehow, in some way, he felt like he had disappointed her. He couldn't shake the feeling that her sad look was really one of disappointment in him. He pushed his chair back.

"So, it's true then. What Ginny told me. She said you were," Mrs. Weasley said softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself.

"It's true," Harry said, finally looking up from the knot in the kitchen table that had kept his attention for the better part of the last few moments. Mrs. Weasley was sitting there with her eyes closed, a pained look on her face.

"And he's your lover then," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes," was all Harry could say. He wasn't going to lie to her. And in that one word he realized that Draco was more than his lover. He was someone he loved. Fully. Completely. Devotedly.

Mrs. Weasley opened her eyes. Harry could see unshed tears in her eyes waiting to fall.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I thought you knew," Harry said, not daring to say that he thought she had seen them at Ron and Hermione's wedding. Not even wanting to get into that little event at all. The silence between them grew, and Harry lowered his eyes, wondering if her next words would be ordering him to leave or would be a verbal bashing.

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into? That sort of lifestyle isn't all that acceptable in the Wizarding world. I'm not sure how well it fares in the Muggle world either. With what I've read from those magazines that Arthur brings home, diseases and one-night stands and drugs and orgies, and, and, and Harry… Draco Malfoy of all people!"

"He's not the same Draco Malfoy that he was in school, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, fiddling with his mug. The coffee had long since gone cold, and he'd lost his taste for it any way.

"It's just not him, its whole family! His father tried to kill you!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "He's not someone you should be with… like that," she said, fiddling with her mug nervously.

"Draco is not like his father," Harry said quietly. "He never wanted to be." And he remembered how horrible it had been to be almost Kavada'd by Lucius Malfoy… and how perilously close Draco had come to being forced into becoming a Death Eater like him.

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. "I don't know Harry, I just don't know. It's just…" her voice trailed off, and she wiped her eye.

"What?"

"It's like you always choose the hardest path, Harry." She reached for his hand, before continuing, "Or it's chosen for you." This time a tear slipped down her cheek, the wetness disappearing into her wrinkled skin. "I just need to know one thing."

Harry nodded. "Anything,"

"Does he care for you?" she asked in a choking voice.

It hurt Harry to hear her sound like that, so sad, and so distant from him; the woman who had become his adopted mother.

"I think so," Harry said, then more firmly. "yes… yes he does."

Mrs. Weasley nodded, and gave Harry's hand a quick squeeze and released it. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

"Harry, I can't say I condone you and he being –" and now it was Mrs. Weasley's turn to have her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink - "erm, a couple. I've been brought up to believe that wizards and witches, men and women belonged together, not two wizards or two men, or even two women. I just, I mean, oh bother," Mrs. Weasley said, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief before tucking it away again.

"You're not angry with me then?" Harry asked.

"Oh Harry, I'm not angry with you," Mrs. Weasley said with a watery little smile. "Just because you love someone that I wouldn't choose for you… well, that doesn't mean you've done anything wrong. It's just who you are."

A prickling started behind Harry's eyes. Years of being called a freak of nature had made him fear rejection almost more than anything or anyone. For someone who had been spurned by his schoolmates and family for less than being attracted to men, to have Mrs. Weasley still regard him as worthy meant more than all the gold in Gringotts.

"And Harry, I'm going to give you the same advice I've given all my children." She looked into Harry's eyes and laid her hand upon his cheek. "Don't walk away from an argument. You can't leave differences to fester and rot. You just have to settle it once and for all or it'll eat you up alive."

Harry nodded and held her hand to his cheek. It felt good to have a mum.

Silently, Molly removed her hand and Harry knew that she knew what he was thinking.

"What's burning?" Harry jumped as Ginny strode into the kitchen, her cloak in hand.

"Ahhh, the porridge!" Mrs. Weasley cried jumping up from her chair. From his seat, Harry could see that the cereal had turned a horrible brown color and looked to be permanently attached to the bottom and sides of the pot.

Laughing, Ginny patted Harry on the shoulder and sat down next to him. She still smelled of flowers and spice. Harry remembered how he used to love that smell and his heart lurched a little. But Ginny had long been lost to him, now married to his old friend, Neville.

Even after he'd broken up with her, he still cherished the memories of their days together. But he didn't regret their parting. Staying together would have been wrong, and to deny who he really was; even worse.

"Harry, why don't you go to London with me instead of hanging around here all day?" Ginny asked, helping herself to Harry's coffee. She pulled a face at the taste of the cold and bitter coffee. She brushed her hair from her face. "Or do you have plans for later?"

Harry shook his head no. He had no plans, no where to go, and no one to see.

"So, is that "no" you don't want to go to London or "no" you don't have plans?" Ginny asked, an amused smile on her face.

"It's yes, I'd like to go to London with you, but why?"

"I just thought it would be nice to catch up and I'd like to talk to you alone." Ginny glanced at Molly, busily scrubbing out the burnt pot. She laughed, "Mum, why don't you just spell that clean?"

"Oh… I should, shouldn't I?" Mrs. Weasley replied absently. She pulled her wand and flicked it. Both Harry and Ginny flinched as the wave of magic rebounded on them.

"Harry, if you stay here, she'll eventually Scourgify you accidentally," Ginny said, rubbing her arm.

"Too late," Harry replied, straightening his glasses.

Laughing, Ginny stood up and draped her cloak around her shoulders. "Come on then. We can walk to Stoat Head Hill and take my portkey to the Leaky…one of the small perks of being a star Chaser."

"Why not Floo?" Harry asked, standing up as well and pushing his chair in.

Ginny leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "I like the windblown look." Seeing Harry's amused reaction, she continued, "Plus, the walk will give us time to chat about old times."

"You two should sit down and have breakfast, I can whip up another pot of porridge in a jiff," Mrs. Weasley said turning around from filling the pot with water again.

"Mum, come on now, we'll just pick something up, maybe have an early lunch," Ginny said, stepping around her chair and heading toward her mother. She gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek.

Harry headed upstairs to get his jacket and knapsack. Maybe it was time to go back to London. And Draco.


	7. Newsflashes!

The day was crisp and clear, the sky a robin egg blue, with white fluffy clouds dancing along with the breeze. The ground was hard and the frozen winter grass crunched underneath their feet as they walked toward Ottery St.Catchpole. Stoatshead Hill was to the left of the village and that was where Ginny's Portkey was set to depart.

Harry surreptitiously studied Ginny as they walked. She'd been quiet since they'd left the Burrow and Harry wondered if she might be thinking of a way to start a conversation between them. Her eyes would dart toward him momentarily and then she'd look straight ahead and her front teeth would worry her bottom lip. Harry had a feeling that whatever she wanted to talk about would be unsettling for her.

He coughed and Ginny looked at him.

"I haven't been this way in years. I think the last time was when I went to the Quidditch World Cup with your family," He said quietly.

"It has been years," Ginny agreed, then laughed. "Why do I feel so strange with you? It's not like I haven't known you for years."

"I don't know. Could it be that you're the big Quidditch star and I'm the lowly Auror chasing ex-Death Eaters?" Harry replied, a grin spreading across his face.

"Oh you!" Ginny exclaimed, elbowing Harry in the ribs. Harry stumbled, but caught himself. Ginny was stronger than she looked. Actually, she was one of the strongest people he knew, both physically and mentally. Her only fault was her temper. And Merlin forbid that he ever got her riled!

She pushed her hair behind her ear and turned towards him with a mischievous look on her face. "I'd race you to the hill, but this Quidditch star doesn't want to embarrass the lowly Auror."

Harry could see the nervous twitch in her stride. "You're on!" He cried and raced off as if his life depended on it, his knapsack banging against his back as he ran.

"Cheat!" Ginny yelled and darted after him.

Harry risked a glanced behind him as he ran. She was close behind and starting to catch up with him. If he could jump the low stone fence just ahead of them, he'd gain a few more seconds on her. He ran faster, his legs pumping hard beneath him, the cold air stabbing his lungs as he dashed onward.

Harry heard her right behind him. Suddenly, there was a muffled thump.

"Oooowwww," Ginny cried.

He slowed to a stop and turned around, panting. Ginny was on the ground, clutching her ankle, her face screwed up in pain. Harry jogged back to her and squatted down beside her.

"What happened?"

"I found a mole hole," Ginny said, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh shite, this hurts!" she said, her hands wrapped around her ankle.

"Do you want me to go back and get your mum?"

"Oh, Gods no. It's not that bad really. It just caught me off guard," Ginny replied

"You're sure? It looks like you twisted it pretty good," Harry said.

"Harry," Ginny replied, giving him an exasperated glare, "I want to go home." She moved her ankle gingerly. "Look, I've got some No-Swell potion at home and a couple of ice packs. That'll take care of it. It's not a big deal, I've had worse,"

"Well, come on then," Harry said extending his hand to help her up.

She grabbed his hand and he started to pull her up. "Ow!" she exclaimed, "I think you're going to have to help me a bit. It's worse that I thought."

"No problem," Harry said wrapping an arm around her waist. "Just take it easy, okay?"

Ginny limped and Harry walked toward the hill in silence. It was almost like old times, only instead of a walk around the Black Lake, it was a trek to Stoatshead Hill.

"I…" they both said in unison, then laughed, Harry's chuckle a deep counterpoint to Ginny's light giggle.

"Ladies first." Harry laughed and mock bowed, almost throwing them both off balance.

"You of all people should know I'm not a lady." Ginny giggled, giving him a poke in the ribs.

"Stop that or I'll drop you!"

"You wouldn't," Ginny said, a threatening look on her face.

"Would too!" Harry laughed and then let go. Ginny staggered, fell to her knees, her outstretched hands stopping her fall.

"You're a real shite, Harry."

"You're right, I am. Sorry Gin," Harry said soberly as he reached out to help her up. But, Ginny had other ideas. She grabbed his hand and pulled and then rolled into his legs. Harry flew over her and landed hard on his arse.

Ginny laughed and Harry wasn't sure if it was because of the startled look on his face at being thrown by a girl, or because he'd almost landed in frozen cow manure.

"Even?" Harry asked, scrambling over to sit next to her and away from the frosted cow dung.

"Even," Ginny agreed giving Harry a little shove.

"Don't start."

"I'm not! Give me a hand and I'll behave," Ginny said before breaking into giggles.

Harry got to his feet and helped Ginny up. He brushed the twigs off her pants and then wrapped his arm around her waist again. She grasped him tightly around the waist as they started walking.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," She said and then cleared her throat.

"Harry?"

"Hmm…"

"I've missed you," Ginny said quietly. "We used to have so much fun, and sometimes I just wonder…"

Harry nodded, and although s little voice in his head was telling him he shouldn't ask, he did. "What? What do you wonder?"

Ginny looked up, a wistful expression on her face. She shook her head and looked away for a moment. When she turned back, she replied quietly, "I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if we'd stayed together."

Harry felt her arm tighten around his waist. "Oh, I don't know, we would have fallen out of love and probably hexed each other, eventually," Harry said lightly giving her a little squeeze and a quick smile.

Ginny laughed and then said quickly. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I love Neville. He's a good man. Not always the most exciting, but he loves me, and I him. But sometimes I just wonder if things would have turned out differently if we'd stayed together instead of breaking up after Professor Dumbledore's death."

Harry helped her over the stone fence, setting her on the top, then vaulting over himself. He pulled her off gently and set her on the ground. "It wouldn't have worked. I sort of knew then. It's hard to explain, but Ginny, I did love you in a way. Just not the right way," Harry sighed and brushed a lock of hair away from her face and over her ear. "I still think of you as the little sister I never had."

"Well, as the little sister you've never had, I want to know. What's going on between you and Malfoy? I sort of overheard you and Mum in the kitchen this morning, so spill."

"Only if you tell me what's going on between you and Neville. I sort of overhead you and your mum in the kitchen last night," Harry admitted.

"I don't know how often I've told Mum that that corridor was the perfect hidy-hole to overhear private conversations." She looked at him expectantly. "Well, go on, tell me what's up with the ferret?

"Well, the ferret as you so nicely call him, has a new mistress: work. It's everything to him. He's always running here, going there, doing this and that. We've hardly spoken more than except for a quick hello here and a goodbye there," Harry said grimly.

"Merlin, Harry, you sound like Moaning Myrtle. At least you know what your partner is doing. Neville has been working a lot, too. But the thing of it is that he's so secretive about it. I haven't a clue what's going on." Ginny stopped and looked up into Harry's eyes. Her gaze was distant, and Harry heard the bitter chill behind her words. "I've already lost someone before, and this time I'd like to know what I'm up against before I lose Neville."

"You're not going to lose him. He loves you. I can see it in the way he looks at you," Harry said, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Sometimes, a person needed to hear that they were loved. Those few simple words had brought a smile back to Ginny's face.

Harry felt a shiver run down his back. The sky had grayed and there was now a hint of snow in the air, but that wasn't why he had shivered. Did Draco feel the same way about him? It was a disconcerting thought and Harry mentally shook his head. Thoughts like that only made him insecure. Still, the troubling thought arose: if Draco cared for him, why hadn't he tried to find him? Harry had been gone for four days now and if Draco had taken off for that length of time, Harry would have tracked him down. Surely, Draco would have reasoned that he would have gone to the Weasleys first. Possibly Hogwarts next, as it was his first real home. He surely wouldn't have thought that Harry would have gone to the Dursleys. A hint of a smile twitched around his mouth. The thought of Draco Malfoy, former Slytherin, dressed in his customary low-slung black jeans and form-fitting tee that hugged every ripple on his stomach, the very image of a walking wet dream, at Uncle Vernon's doorstep… well, it would be interesting to say the least! But what if…

"Earth to Harry!" Ginny laughed, waving her hand before Harry's face. "You've got the funniest look on your face. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing. Everything. And what do you mean I have a funny look on my face? I was just thinking," Harry said.

"Ah, no wonder. I don't think I've ever seen you do that before," Ginny chuckled.

Harry laughed and offered her his arm. They should head on up the hill before it started snowing. The wind had picked up and was ruffling Harry's hair. Ginny threaded her arm though his and they started up the hill. It was a gentle incline and Harry had no problem with it, but Ginny's mouth was pressed into a thin line.

"Is your ankle hurting a lot?" Harry asked, slowing.

"A bit, but let's keep going,"

"You know, it would have been a lot easier if we'd just Apparated," Harry said, pausing to adjust his knapsack.

"Apparation isn't good for the baby," Ginny said matter-of-factly.

"WHAT?"

Ginny turned, a huge smile on her face and Harry grabbed her in a bear hug. "I'm pregnant," she whispered into his neck as his arms tightened around her.

"Oh my God, I'm going to be an uncle, sort of," Harry said in amazement mixed with laughter.

"Yes, you are. Now let go, you're squishing me!" Ginny giggled and twisted out of Harry's hug. He still had her hands and held her at arm's length studying her.

"Oh God," Harry repeated, shaking his head, still smiling. Little Ginny pregnant? His goofy grin faded, but what about Neville and what he'd overheard? "Neville knows?" he asked.

"He knows. In fact, he said I ought to visit Mum since I 'wasn't myself'. Which in Neville-speak means I was being peevish and crabby. Mum said it was all hormones."

"So everything's alright between you two then?" Harry asked, still worried.

"Oh yes! It's just sometimes I start imaging things, and well, Mum explained it all to me. She said she was convinced Dad was messing about at the office when she was pregnant with Ron. Turned out he was collecting parts for the car. You remember? The Anglia?"

"How could I forget?" Harry said with a laugh. The wind whipped Ginny's hair about her face like long fingers of flame. Her face glowed with happiness as she looked at him. She'd been radiant the day of her wedding, but this didn't even compare. Soft white snowflakes swirled around them. It was a magical moment, more so than any other Harry had experienced before. He couldn't help staring at her.

"Harry," Ginny said hesitantly, as she moved closer into his loose embrace and laid her gloved hand upon his cheek. The leather was warm against his cold skin, and he couldn't help but lean into her soft caress. "I wanted to tell you something and I didn't want to tell you back at the Burrow. I'm sure someone would have overheard me," she said with a little chuckle. She gazed at Harry and smiled wistfully. "I love you Harry, always have, always will. So, if Malfoy is the one for you, don't let your pride stop you from making up with him." She stood on her tip-toes and planted a soft kiss on Harry's cheek, than patted it, as if making sure it would go to his heart. "It's the one thing I've learned from Neville."

Harry felt a flush spread across his wind-chapped cheeks. "You're a wise woman, Ginny Weasley," he said gruffly, his voice threatening to crack from emotion.

"Longbottom."

Harry nodded and reached for her hand. "We ought to be going. Don't want to have my future niece's or nephew's mum catch cold."

"I'm fine, but I want to get back. Neville owled me last night and gave me his schedule. And…" she said with a sparkle in her eye, "he's made reservations at this Cuban restaurant down on Hoxton Square."

"Oh? I've heard of that one. It's very nice," Harry said, his emotions now under control.

"I've got an idea! You could come with us! Maybe even owl Malfoy and have him join us," Ginny said, excitedly.

"But I don't know where he is," Harry replied.

"Well, try at least. It'll be fun. Almost like old times."

"Alright."

They had reached the top of the hill, and Ginny reached into her bag and pulled out a Muggle wristwatch. Its fake leather band was worn and the face was cracked, but all the better for a Portkey. Ginny tightened her grip on Harry's hand and pushed the stem in with her thumb.

Her last words swirled around Harry as did the landscape. "There's never enough time to be with the ones you love, Harry."

_Sorry this chapter has taken so long to be written and updated. Real Life decided to kick me in the butt, but thanks to my wonderful Beta, Conny F, and several large doses of caffeine, it's here for your enjoyment! Read and review, please._


	8. Remorse and Deception

Draco watched the smoke curl gracefully upwards from the lit joint and out the cracked open window. He took another drag and let the smoke work its magic. Exhaling, he leaned back on the window sill and rearranged his foot still on the floor to keep him from slipping off his precarious perch. Harry didn't particularly like this one vice of his, but Harry wasn't here, and he needed to relax. The whole ritual of removing the small box from its hiding place under the loose floorboard on his side of the bed, measuring out the proper amount of mallowsweet, then rolling it into a proper cigarette was the start to feeling better. In fact, after a shot or three of firewhiskey, and almost three smokes later, Draco was feeling quite mellow, indeed, and he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

Oh gods, he was tired! Tired of work and of his mother and her incessant yammering about grandchildren and the Malfoy estate and a myriad of other things that were unimportant to him. He fumbled around for the whiskey bottle, grasping it around the neck. He took another swig and felt the alcohol burn as he swallowed. But it was all good, he just needed another hit off his joint. The smoke soothed his burning throat on the way down, and Draco set the bottle back on the table. The liquor was half gone now, but he could still see Longbottom and Wood in his mind's eye.

Perhaps he should just Obliviate himself. The utter embarrassment of it all! Looking like a jealous schoolboy and then finding Longbottom and Wood together, it was almost too much! Draco could only mumble an apology, then Apparate home right there from the doorway of the apartment. He didn't care if the neighbors heard anything, nor did he care what Longbottom and Wood thought. He just wanted to escape from that sight.

Draco shivered as a cool breeze forced its way in through the crack. The joint was about gone; he was feeling as relaxed as he was going to become tonight, and the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions spinning around in his head was starting to settle down. The cool air was keeping him awake enough to think; the mallowsweet had mellowed him out enough to think calmly, if not completely clearly.

What exactly was his and Harry's relationship anyway? They weren't married, nor had there been a bonding or "commitment ceremony" as the Muggles called it. But, whatever it was they had felt right to Draco. This thing of being a couple, not quite married, but more than being just friends with benefits. He lifted his head from the wall and let it fall back with a small thunk. And he'd fucked it up! Maybe he shouldn't have tried to do it all himself, but he was almost finished with setting things right with his father's holdings. "Correction", Draco thought, "_my _holdings." He should have taken his time, and perhaps he should have involved Harry in what he was trying to accomplish; no matter that Harry had any clue about running a multi-national enterprise. Instead, he'd run off and left Harry in the dark. He'd been so focused on what he had to do that he didn't see what it was doing to Harry. His lover, boyfriend, partner, whatever the proper name for him, had been content with Draco as he had been; the owner of a hair salon. Surely, Harry shouldn't have had to contend with the bastard he'd become while trying to keep his father's dream alive. Oh yes, it would all pay off and the rewards would be great, but what good would money be without someone to share it with?

That day when Harry had come in for a style had made all those old schoolboy feelings rise again: the unfounded feeling that Harry was better than he because he was "The Boy Who Lived"; the unbridled disdain that he felt toward Harry and his friends, and then the completely unexpected feeling of being an object of desire under the obsessive surveillance by Harry during most of their fifth and all of sixth year. Draco had known then that he preferred boys over girls by then, even if Harry hadn't. Oh yes, his gaydar was very accurate. And the look on Harry's face when he'd kissed him almost a year ago! Just the memory of how Harry had responded to his tentative kiss, his lips moving with his, the almost hidden sight of his arousal, and his hands on his back, then under his sweater, the way they had shagged like mad bunnies, and the way Harry had felt in his arms made him feel a hot stab of desire. Right here, right now, half drunk and thoroughly mellow.

Draco opened his eyes and pushed himself upright, still perched on the window sill. He peered through the fogged glass at the early morning world outside, then flicked the tiny stub that was left of his joint through the crack. He watched it fall, its tiny burning end turning over and over, until it landed in a pile of slush near the walkway. He saw it go out and imagined that he could hear the quiet hiss of it dying.

Fuck, he was tired. Bed and sleep were calling. He had to be at the shop for some sort of appointment. He couldn't remember exactly what time or who it was with, but he had enough time left to snatch a few hours of sleep before making it in. It was only a quarter past five.

Running a hand over his face, Draco suddenly realized that he had sat there most of the night, thinking, smoking, and drinking; he hadn't figured out where Harry had gone, or who he might be with, but he had decided that he would start with the most obvious and then work his way down the list. And the list could wait until morning. Harry was his, no one else's and that was the way it was going to stay if he had anything to say about it.

Draco wiped the fogged windowpane with his hand and stared out into the night. There was still a light on across the street at old woman Henderson's. The old bat had been sitting at the window for hours now. Every so often he had seen the blinds being parted. How much longer was she going to watch him? It wasn't paranoia or an inflated sense of self-worth that caused Draco to think that, but the simple fact that he had seen her do exactly the same thing with almost clocklike precision: split the blinds apart and stare at the window of their flat facing her house for at least five minutes; then let the slats fall from her hand and settle back into her chair by the window.

He pulled the window shut with a bang, latched it clumsily, then slid off his window perch and staggered off toward the bedroom.

xxxxx

The photograph had faded with the passing of time, but her memory was as sharp as ever. Danny had been a handsome lad with a shock of blond hair, lake-blue eyes, and the sweetest smile that a mother could ever want. Vera Henderson's hand traced the ornate edges of the picture frame, her wrinkled, boney finger following the dips and curves over and over again.

Danny was forever twenty-four in the photo. He'd given her this picture for Mother's Day ten years ago. It had been such a wonderful day! He'd taken her out for lunch at her favorite restaurant and for a stroll around the park. Such little things, but it was all she wanted. That and a photograph of her only child. A mother's heart never asked for much, perhaps a hug, a kiss, or to be thought of in a fond way. Her Danny had been a good boy; obedient to a fault, except after he had moved out. It hadn't been a bad thing when he'd moved out. A young man should have the opportunity to leave the nest and spread his wings and it hadn't bothered her at all, until he'd gotten a roommate.

She wiped a tear from her wrinkled face and looked at the sweet face of her Danny again. If only he'd never had let that nasty, perverted boy share a flat with him. She would never forget his name: Roberto. Roberto with the curly black hair and the devilish smile. Roberto who had worked as a waiter in the posh restaurant down on Hoxton Square. Roberto with eyes that looked like molten chocolate.

He'd been the one that her Danny had brought home with him for supper one evening after he'd called and said that he wanted her to meet someone. He had said that Bobbie was his true love and the only one for him. Someone beautiful in body and soul with dark brown eyes and curly black hair. She couldn't wait to meet her!

When she answered the door that evening, she hadn't expected a slender Latin man with her boy. She'd expected a girl from Danny's description! Instead, there he stood… a curly-haired devil with his arm around her Danny's waist.

It was his fault that her Danny was dead; taken by some unthinkable disease contracted during a perverted act. She had forgiven Danny, but she'd never forgiven that boy with the dancing eyes and curly hair.

The years had passed but the pain and memories hadn't. She hated men like Roberto; nice to your face, but harbouring a killer inside them. She had no compassion for the murderer of her son, though he had died too. Her mouth twisted and she felt bile rise in her throat. She hoped Roberto was rotting in the lowest depth of hell now, flames charring his bones and licking his privates. She had sworn that if she could, she'd spare another mother the pain she'd felt when she sat by her son and watched him take his last few breaths. And now, maybe, just maybe she would be able to help another mother from losing her son to another dark-haired devil.

She sat the photograph back in its special place on the table near her chair. She would keep Danny next to her always. Narcissa had said he was a handsome boy too. She had met Mr. Malfoy's mother a few weeks ago, when she'd come to call on her son. Mr. Malfoy hadn't been home, but the silver-haired woman had seen her peeking out her window and had come over to inquire if she'd seen him recently. She'd introduced herself as Mr. Malfoy's mother and then insisted that she call her Narcissa. How sweet of her not to stand on protocol, as Mrs. Henderson could see that she was upper class, not like the likes of her.

And a prettier woman she'd never seen! Tall and slender, graceful and elegant, Mrs. Malfoy had swept into her flat. She usually didn't invite strangers in, but Narcissa was different. Something in the back of her mind had told her so.

She'd served Earl Grey and a plate of freshly baked biscuits, the ones that Danny had always loved. Mrs. Malfoy's visit had been the bright spot in her usual dreary daily routine. She was so easy to talk to, and Mrs. Henderson told her everything about Daniel and how wonderful he'd been; about his life and his death, the almost forgotten pain surging while being spoken of over a pot of tea.

"What a handsome young man, Mrs. Henderson!" Narcissa exclaimed. She set the frame down right in the spot that Mrs. Henderson had decided long ago was Danny's spot.

"He was, wasn't he?" Mrs. Henderson replied. She took a sip of her tea and gave the cup a little swirl before setting it back down in the saucer. "I miss him so."

"Oh Mrs. Henderson, I'm so sorry!" Mrs. Henderson could see her own pain mirrored on the woman's face, almost as if she knew what it was like to lose a son too.

"It's alright, dear," she replied, a faint smile on her face. I've gotten past it. I think I miss his visits the most. He always seemed to come by when I needed a lift." She took another sip of tea and studied the liquid for a moment. "It's a shame you missed your son."

Narcissa laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh but one filled with bitterness. "If I didn't try to come by and see him, I'd not see him at all. He spends all his time with his flatmate."

Mrs. Henderson suddenly felt cold inside, colder than she'd felt in all the years since Danny's death. She lifted her eyes and gazed into Narcissa's grey eyes. Their eyes locked and suddenly Mrs. Henderson felt warm, and needed… just like Danny had made her feel.

"I don't like that boy. I think he's up to no good with Draco," Narcissa said, her bottom lip trembling, "I'm so afraid… and there's nothing I can do!" She put her handkerchief to her mouth and Mrs. Henderson could see tears welling up in her eyes.

Vera Henderson felt her heart lurch in her chest. This poor woman was in the same boat she'd been in years ago: faced with the choices her son had made and nothing she could do about them!

"Oh Narcissa," Mrs. Henderson said, leaning forward and reaching for Narcissa's. "Oh dearie, if only I could help you," she said sympathetically.

"It's sweet of you to offer, Mrs. Henderson, but I don't know what you could do…" and Narcissa's voice trailed off and a thoughtful expression appeared on her face. "Well, there is one small thing, and if it's any bother, I would request that you refuse. " Narcissa gave Mrs. Henderson's hand a small squeeze and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "If you could just keep an eye on him for me, and let me know how he's doing, I would appreciate it ever so much." She gave Mrs. Henderson a weak smile.

"Why, I'd be happy to do that for you, dear, and it's no bother at all."

"You're too kind," Narcissa said, and Mrs. Henderson could see that she was a bit embarrassed at her request. It must be hard for a woman of Mrs. Malfoy's position to humble herself before a simple woman like her. She studied her guest, and the littlest, most cunning voice reminded her that to be a friend of a woman such as Narcissa would mean being friends with power and wealth.

Narcissa's voice roused her from her musings. "I'll send round some special stationary for you to use. My staff will forward your missives directly to me that way. Plus, I'd like to reimburse you in advance for your time."

"Dear, you don't have to give me money for doing this. I couldn't bear the thought of a woman as sweet as you going through the pain I did with my son!" Mrs. Henderson exclaimed.

"I would still prefer to give you something for helping me," Narcissa said, rising from the old over-stuffed chair across from Mrs. Henderson.

"The only thing I'd ever want, I can't have. The only thing I want is my son," Mrs. Henderson said, and made to rise also.

"Sit," Narcissa said quietly. The voice echoed in Mrs. Henderson's brain and she obeyed. "You will write me about my son, and his comings and goings and whether he is with Mr. Potter and if there are any actions that you find strange.

"I will," Mrs. Henderson whispered. It wasn't a bad feeling to be ordered around by Narcissa… it was nice, Narcissa was nice, and…

"Mr. Potter is a queer, a poof, a shirt-lifter, whatever is the word of choice by you Muggles," Narcissa sneered. "You will write me about everything you see him do, and if he and my son go out together. How they act together. Anything and everything you see them do," Narcissa ordered.

Such a sweet woman to care so much about her son, and what a horrible man Mr. Potter must be to want to corrupt such a sweet woman's son! Narcissa was the nicest, most down-to-earth woman she'd ever met! Mrs. Henderson nodded and whispered, "Yes."

"You must be sly, old woman. Don't let them know what you're up to, and you will not ever mention my name in front of them." Narcissa's eyes glittered as she peered into Mrs. Henderson's eyes. "I trust you will not fail me."

"Narcissa, dear, I'll be happy to write to you! You can count on me! " Mrs. Henderson exclaimed happily. "We mothers should stick together!"

Narcissa picked up the faded photograph and Mrs.Henderson watched her study it once again. "A photograph is worth a thousand words," Narcissa said quietly.

Mrs. Henderson watched her sit the framed photograph down, not really caring if it was in its proper spot or not. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Henderson, her face now had a dazed, content expression, rather than the tired look of unfinished grief that she had before Mrs. Malfoy entered her house.

Narcissa snapped her fingers. "I'm sure we will," she said brightly, "I'm sure we will."

xxxxxx

The box of stationary rested on the table next to Danny's photograph. The gorgeous silver pen Narcissa had sent rested atop it, ready for Vera to write at any time of the day or night.

She'd already started a letter for today. She'd seen Narcissa's son come in very late last night: almost a quarter till twelve. It was now a quarter to eleven in the morning and he still hadn't emerged. If it hadn't been so late, she might have run out and chatted with him. But for some reason, the thought had entered her mind that Narcissa probably wouldn't have liked her to do that. Mrs. Henderson covered her mouth as she yawned. She had tried to go to sleep, but the thought of missing something had kept her from crawling into her bed. And now she really could use a nap. Perhaps after Narcissa's son had left for the day…

At least that nasty Mr. Potter hadn't returned to the flat. Draco was safe for the moment. Draco, now that was an odd name, to be sure, but Narcissa had said he was named after a great-great-great-grandfather. The upper class always did things a little differently.

She separated the blind slats and studied the building across the street. Still no sign of Draco or that evil Mr. Potter. Funny how someone could fool you. Mr. Potter had seemed all right at first, but now she knew better. And if she had her way about it, she'd do what she could to keep Narcissa's only son away from that dreadful man. She let the slats drop back into place. The poor boy was probably upset that he'd been taken in by his flatmate. Perhaps he'd been out drowning his outrage in an ale or five. Although he hadn't seemed drunk when she'd seen him slouch in late last night. Narcissa had said he was very, very busy taking care of family matters and investments, and that he started his days early. What could be keeping him?

xxxxx

A dragon had died in his mouth. Nothing else could be so foul. He was completely sure of this. Well, perhaps a Troll or Blast-ended Skerwt was nastier. But right now he felt like he was breathing fire and his lungs were nothing but charred blobs of flesh. Draco blinked. It was the worst fucking hangover he'd ever had.

As he struggled to sit up, the dragon moved from his mouth to his chest. Draco rolled to his side and again attempted to sit up. A nauseating burning sensation in the back of his throat and a stomach that felt like he'd been on an ocean cruise in a raft convinced him to lie back down. Oh gods, he was sick and the room swirled around him and a hundred snitches started buzzing when he lifted his head. It probably hadn't been the best of ideas to mix mallowsweet and firewhiskey last night, but it sure had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Draco rolled off the side of the bed in an ungraceful tumble, landing on his hands and knees. He cringed as his stomach gave a flip and gurgled uncomfortably. A trip to the toilet seemed to be in order, and he started to crawl toward the bathroom. This was definitely not the best way to start one's day.

A hangover potion, a hot shower, and a change of clothes later Draco walked slowly to his desk and flopped into his chair. He tugged open a drawer, pulled a piece of parchment out of the desk and picked up his favorite quill. He needed a list, a plan, oh hell, he needed a good tracking charm to find Harry.

A bright shaft of sunlight shone through the curtains and into his face. Squinting, he peered down into the street below. Muggles were out and about doing God knew what. Dogs were barking abnormally loud and the sun seemed to be entirely too bright. Not to mention that Mrs. Henderson was still peering through her window at their flat.

Draco pulled the curtains closed, but the study was still well lit from the morning sun. Wishing he had taken an additional headache potion, he picked up his quill and promptly spilled ink upon his sheet of parchment. Cursing, he wadded it up and pulled another sheet from his desk drawer. His head throbbed, and he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then laid his head down upon his folded arms. One blood-shot eye popped open and gazed at the desk clock. Ten o'clock in the morning. He was late for opening the shop. He hoped Ramone had taken care of that.

It wasn't that Ramone was a dimwit, but there were times when Draco could have sworn he wasn't the sharpest quill in the bundle. Since his father's death and the subsequent demands upon his time, Draco had been relying on him more and more often to handle the shop while he was off. So far, Ramone had had only one mishap: a mixup of appointments resulting in a magical hair-setting solution being used on a Muggle who wasn't going to a costume party as Medusa. Luckily, a quick Obliviation and a few free service cards (given out of guilt) had mollified his client.

No matter. Ramone would have to run the shop. He had more important things to do now. Like bring Harry home and try to patch things up.


End file.
